


That Mythical Thing

by sassyjumper



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Angst, Gen, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-15
Updated: 2013-08-15
Packaged: 2017-12-23 15:33:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/928166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sassyjumper/pseuds/sassyjumper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>House thinks Wilson needs to get laid. Wilson has questions. Set in Season 8.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Mythical Thing

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the "Dropped Plotline Challenge - Valentine's edition" at House/Wilson on LJ.
> 
> The first two lines of dialogue are from the S8 episode “Better Half."

 

 

 

“You know that close to one percent of the population identifies as asexual?” Wilson asked from across the lunch table.

House looked up from his manga. He’d just gotten to the part where the unlicensed genius surgeon was trying to extort an obscene fee from a desperate woman in need of an experimental heart procedure.

But Wilson bringing up sex—or a-sex—was enough to spark his interest. Naturally, he needed to disguise that interest under the veil of ridicule.

“We really gotta get you laid,” House said. He eyed Wilson for a beat before casually adding, “If I have to plough that furrow myself, so be it.”

Wilson, as usual, offered no reaction to the innuendo. Hell, it wasn’t even innuendo, House thought; he might as well have said, _Why don’t I just fuck you?_

He mentally shrugged.

Wilson was babbling again—something about an asexual patient and her husband who’d been happily married for years despite never knockin’ boots. House’s first thought was that the couple must be ugly, since extremely bad looks were pretty much the only legit reason to never have sex.

Of course, that didn’t explain why Wilson had apparently gone sex-less for so long. Wilson wasn’t ugly.

_Wait. Yes, he is._

“You’re ugly,” House told him, to prove it.

Wilson stopped nattering and just squinted for a few seconds. “Wha—Were you even listening to me? Or were you just sitting there thinking up insults?…And managed to come up with ‘you’re ugly.’”

“Oh, I was listening,” House assured, putting his elbows on the table. “You were extolling the virtues of asexuality. Thinking of joining?”

“Uh, it’s not Sam’s Club. It’s an orientation.”

“Yeah, yeah. Let’s get back to the important matter here. You need to get laid. It’s almost Valentine’s Day, after all.”

“Yes, I wouldn’t want to offend a Christian saint by not banging someone. Sorry, but my sex life is none of your business.”

House frowned. “Since when?”

Wilson exhaled a humorless little laugh. “Right.” He paused like he was going to continue, but then he looked away and started drumming his fingers on the table.

House peered at him. _Interesting._

After a few seconds, Wilson cleared his throat. “So, what?…Are you gonna give me another ten-day deadline?” He kept his eyes on his tapping fingers.

_What the hell is he talking about?_ House thought.

“What the hell are you talking about?” he said.

Wilson shook his head and made his “of course” face. “You don’t remember,” he said in that long-suffering way he had.

House nodded. “That’s what my question implied, yes.”

Wilson smiled wryly. “When Sam dumped me, and you wanted me to have sex with…whoever was willing. You gave me ten days. Remember?”

House was momentarily at a loss. He did recall giving Wilson an ultimatum when he’d started getting too snuggly with that diabetic cat. But that was…a long time ago. And a period of his life that House preferred to block out as much as possible.

“Nope. Sorry,” he said briskly.

There was a flash of something in Wilson’s eyes; if House didn’t know better, he might call it hurt. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared and replaced with a smirk.

“That’s probably for the best,” Wilson said. “And anyway,” he added, sliding out of the booth, “I’ve been doing fine for myself.”

House furrowed his brow. “You spend your Saturday nights with me, playing video games.”

Wilson looked down at him with an annoying self-satisfied smile. “You don’t know everything about me, House.”

“Yes, I do,” he insisted, trying to ignore the sense of alarm rising in his gut.

Wilson shook his head slightly. “Gotta go.”

“Wait.” House turned in his seat as Wilson walked past. “You’re coming over to play video games tomorrow, right?”

No response. House turned back around and slumped in his seat.

_God, he’s a bitch._

 

*******

 

House tried not to act too smug when Wilson arrived at his place the next night, bearing the olive branch of Thai takeout. Well, he tried for a solid few seconds.

“Oh, is that Dr. Mystery?” he said from his couch, not bothering to turn around as Wilson shed his coat. “So glad you could drop off some _pad Thai_ on your way to…wherever it is you go.”

He’d known, of course, that Wilson was coming over. The thoughtful bastard had called earlier to see if he wanted _khao soi_ this time. (And hell yeah, he did.) But House could never quite resist waving Wilson’s lameness, hypocrisy, self-righteousness and various other flaws in his face.

“Why are you so happy?” Wilson grumbled as he placed the takeout bags on the coffee table.

House had apparently been smiling without realizing it. He shrugged. “My BFF is here.”

“Mm-hmm.” Wilson faux-smiled then went to retrieve plates and beer.

Following standard protocol, House stayed behind to man the remote. He stopped when he stumbled across an episode of _Dirty Jobs_ and quickly recognized it as that one where What’s-His-Name works on a farm that raises fainting goats.

They didn’t really faint, of course. They had a genetic anomaly that caused myotonia congenita, and any time the goats panicked, their muscles would seize up and they’d fall over—which to the uneducated eye looked like fainting.

House found it all highly entertaining. “Cool,” he said, dropping the remote.

“What?” Wilson inquired as he came into the living room. He stopped in his tracks when he looked at the TV. “Ugh, this again? Not the goat one.”

He looked at House in disapproval, as if he’d invented the fainting-goat industry.

“What’s wrong with this?” House demanded as Wilson set down the plates and put his hands on his hips.

“He chases the poor things around, trying to make them faint,” Wilson said indignantly. “Just because he thinks it’s funny.”

House rolled his eyes. “He doesn’t hurt the goats. He just scares them until they become catatonic.”

“Yeah. That definitely doesn’t fit the definition of ‘hurt.’”

“Oh gawd,” House said, shifting forward to grab a plate. “You really lost your sense of humor while I was gone.”

Wilson flopped down next to him. “Uh, no. I thought it was cruel the first time we watched this. And I didn’t like the—the back-story,” he added with a hand flap.

_Oh, right._ House remembered that Wilson seemed personally offended by the history of the fainting goat. Shepherds had once used them to protect their sheep: If a wolf attacked the flock, the goat would flip its lid and faint. Then the sheep got away while the wolf dined on the goat.

“Why are you so down on the shepherds?” House asked. “It was ingenious of them to take advantage of genetically fucked-up goats.”

“Did you actually hear the statement you just made?” Wilson said as he dished out some _pad Thai._

“They’re _goats._ ”

House watched as Wilson simply sat back and began to sullenly pick at his rice noodles. When it became clear no response was coming, House turned back to the TV and tried to concentrate on the falling goats. But the six feet of mope beside him was kind of overbearing.

He was about to give in and change the channel when Wilson spoke up. “Why did you give me ten days?”

House turned to look at him, but Wilson’s eyes were cast down. This was unexpected.

“I told you I don’t even remember doing it,” he said, bracing for a Wilsonian cry of “bullshit.”

But Wilson just sighed tiredly and put his plate on the table. He sat back and paused before he spoke again.

“Did you think it would be funny?” He had his head angled toward House but didn’t really look at him. “Give me ten days to fail, then…humiliate me somehow?”

“No,” House said out of surprise. When Wilson looked at him, he added, “I mean…as I’m starting to vaguely recall, that’s not what I intended.”

“Then why?”

_What the hell?_ He didn’t know why he said half the shit he uttered to Wilson.

Of course, in this particular case, he had an idea about the reasons. After _Sam, Part II: Son of Sam,_ he’d wanted Wilson to hurry up and get back to being himself. Cuddy had thought it was all about House’s weird sense of guilt over being in a relationship. And that probably was part of it.

But despite appearances on most days, he also actually wanted Wilson to be happy—or at least not unhappy. And Wilson had always seemed to need a woman in his life to achieve that. Until he became unhappy again, that is.

“I,” House hesitated, not really wanting to say the lame thing on the tip of his tongue. “I just wanted you to feel better.”

“So I’d stop annoying you.”

“Well, if you know all the answers to your questions, why are you asking me?”

Wilson shook his head and House thought he saw the beginnings of a sad little smile. He had no idea what to make of this dreariness.

“I did try, you know,” Wilson said then, haltingly. “The night after you issued my deadline. I went back to that place where we saw the barista, and I met another woman.”

House felt his eyes widen a bit. He wasn’t sure why; Wilson had just done what he’d ordered.

“And? Did it go any better with that one?”

Wilson scrubbed a hand over his face. “Um…No. I, uh, just wasn’t interested.”

House swallowed. This seemed like the point where a normal person would express sympathy or reassurance. Clearly, that didn’t apply to him. Yet for some reason he felt compelled to try.

“OK.” He shrugged. “You were still depressed. Makes sense.”

“Then a couple days later I tried flirting with Dr. Lau from neuro, at the salad bar,” Wilson went on like House hadn’t spoken. “She didn’t even look up from the sneeze guard.”

House frowned. “She was preoccupied. Salad construction requires focus.”

Wilson bobbed his head a bit, like he was considering that. “And anyway,” House continued, “you should’ve taken a shot at the meat-station lady instead.”

Wilson cringed. “She’s, like, 70 years old.”

“Yes,” House conceded. “But I’ve seen the way she looks at you. And she’s quite sturdy for her age…from carving the beef, I imagine. That’s not a euphemism.”

Wilson let his head drop and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t even know what that means.”

After a moment he looked up again. “So I tried, is my point. Then the ten days passed and you didn’t bring it up…And I figured, great, I can stop trying.”

House wasn’t sure what to say to that. Yes, he’d forgotten the whole deadline thing. At the time, he was busy with his own quest for that elusive, and probably mythical, thing called happiness. But he hadn’t intended for Wilson to give up.

“I shouldn’t have tried to bully you back into the game so soon,” House acknowledged. “But what kind of a moron thinks, ‘Oh well, I tried for ten days’?”

“It wasn’t like that,” Wilson protested. “I mean, yeah, I was relieved when you forgot about it and I could just stay in with Sarah.” He visibly flinched, obviously realizing the lameness of his words. “But I didn’t resign myself to being a cat guy forever…After you—after you disappeared, I tried to meet people.”

As illogical as it was, House felt a flare of jealousy. “What do you mean _tried?_ People are everywhere.”

Wilson pressed his lips together. “I did what normal people do. I went out for a drink after work, or I went to the park—”

“Did you sit on a bench and feed the pigeons? ’Cause chicks dig that.”

Wilson exhaled loudly through his nose. “You know what? I had plenty of women come up to me. There was even a guy…” He trailed off and looked at House in mild alarm.

House gaped. “ _Even_ a guy? You mean, like…hitting on you?”

Wilson’s face was turning that familiar shade of “Oh shit.”

“Well. He sat down next to me at the bar, and I thought he was just being friendly…till he kinda leaned in and, um, put his hand on my knee.”

“And then what?” House demanded, not sure why his voice was suddenly so loud.

Wilson opened and closed his mouth. “Nothing, really. I—I just politely said I wasn’t interested…What did you think I would do?”

House wanted to toss off a pithy response, but his pith production seemed to have shut down. One thing he did know, that jolt of jealousy he’d felt a minute ago was nothing compared to what he felt at the thought of Wilson doing _that_ with a guy.

_Wait. No—I wasn’t jealous._ He was shocked, or something. _Yes, shock._ Because really, no self-respecting gay man should look at such a fashion-challenged, wonky-eyed dork and think, “Yes, must have.”

House noticed Wilson staring at him and returned to the present. “So what became of all these admirers you were fighting off in my absence?”

Wilson rolled his eyes. “I wasn’t…They weren’t…I didn’t find them interesting, OK?”

“Well,” House said with a smirk. “That’s understandable. There’s really no replacement for me, is there?”

He glanced at Wilson to see if he could discern an answer to that question in his expression. He tried not to be offended when he saw nothing but a set jaw and unreadable eyes.

Of course, House realized he had no right to be offended. He did actually know Wilson could do better than spend his Saturday nights on lockdown with a caustic, crippled parolee. If he’d only try.

“You know what your problem is?” House asked.

Wilson sighed and glanced at him. “I’m sure you have a suggestion.”

“You say you try, but you don’t really. You go out and sit there passively, waiting for someone else to make a move. You’re like one of those myotonic goats, just frozen in place waiting for the wolves.”

“Oh-kay.”

“No, it’s true.” House shifted to more fully face Wilson. “Even Bonnie said it. Little mousy Bonnie had to be the one with the balls and jump you. And you know what? That worked when you were young enough to just sit there being cute and charming. But you’re not young and cute anymore. You’re not gonna get the cream of the crop flocking to you.”

Wilson crossed his arms. “Duly noted.”

“Good,” House said, gaining steam. “And yes, I am giving you another deadline—”

“House—”

“Valentine’s Day is in…huh, ten days. So you’ve got ten days to get out there and meet someone.”

Wilson let his head fall to the backrest. “House, what the hell? You never want me going near a woman—or anyone who isn’t you.”

House felt a pang of guilt at the truth of those words. “I know,” he said, lowering his voice. “But…I can’t let you hole yourself up in here with me anymore.”

Wilson lifted his head and turned toward him.

“You need to go out and actually try this time,” House said. He paused then and waited until Wilson’s eyes met his. “If you want someone, you have to make a move.”

Wilson just kept gazing at him, blinking slowly and letting those last words hang in the air. He was giving him the oddest look, and once again House was at a loss for how to read it.

Wilson bit his bottom lip, and House felt his heart rate pick up; he could’ve sworn Wilson was starting to lean in. For a few seconds, he felt a swell of panic, relief and something else he couldn’t identify.

But then Wilson abruptly looked down at the forgotten Thai food. “I—” he said, sounding a little hoarse. “I don’t know if I can.”

House licked his lips. “Then you’re a coward,” he said, but with no malice.

They sat in silence for a few moments, the sounds of yet another _Dirty Jobs_ filling the room. House was just reaching for his plate when Wilson spoke.

“So I have ten days to make a move,” he said quietly. “And…what are you gonna do this time if I fail to accept the challenge?”

House ran a hand over his stubble. “I haven’t decided yet.” He glanced at Wilson, who was looking at him with those _eyes._ “Maybe nothing,” he admitted.

“Then I guess you’re a coward, too,” Wilson said mildly.

House had no argument. “Myotonic goats have nothing on us.”

Wilson smiled, but with that edge of sadness. “OK then. We’ll see what happens in ten days.” He reached for their plates, mumbling something about reheating, and made a beeline for the kitchen.

House watched him flee then sat back and took a swig from his beer. He knew what would happen in ten days. They’d both be back here, sitting close but not too close, talking, laughing, arguing, bitching and gossiping. Not quite happy, but not unhappy either. Maybe that was all he could hope for at this point. It was probably all he deserved.

Wilson probably deserved more; House was sure he did, in fact. But as long as he kept showing up at the door on Saturday night, House would let him in.

 

 

 

_—End_


End file.
